


Not Bleeding on the Furniture

by NB_Cecil



Series: No Privacy on a Space Station [9]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Bashir’s Terrible Dress-Sense Strikes Again, Body Image, Chubby Lizard, Cuddling and Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Episode: s04e10 Our Man Bashir, Established Relationship, Fat!Garak, Fluff, Food, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Mild Blood, Minor Injuries, No Privacy On A Space Station, Pillow Talk, Post-Episode: s04e10 Our Man Bashir, Rakantha Street is Back!, Romantic Fluff, Sharing Clothes, body image issues, body shame, dorks in space, fluff and comfort, mild bickering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-29 17:37:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20439908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NB_Cecil/pseuds/NB_Cecil
Summary: Post-OMB, after a trip to the Infirmary where Bashir patches up Garak’s gunshot wound and checks the Orinoco’s crew over, Garak and Bashir repair to Bashir’s quarters.





	Not Bleeding on the Furniture

“Take off your shirt,” Bashir instructed, shrugging off his dinner jacket as the door to his quarters hissed closed.

Garak scowled, clutching protectively at the front of his shirt.

“I don’t want you bleeding on my furniture.” Bashir elaborated as he rummaged through a pile of laundry stacked on the coffee table. He pulled out a shirt and offered it to his guest. 

Garak eyed the neon green velour monstrosity with distaste. “Thanks to your professional ministrations I am no-longer bleeding,” He pointed out.

“Your clothes are covered in blood,” Bashir countered.

“Very well.” Garak conceded, shrugging out of his own jacket and loosening his bow tie as he spoke, “But do you have something less lurid?”

“Help yourself.” Bashir waved the rejected shirt in the direction of the pile of laundry, his free hand unbuttoning his collar. Top buttons undone, he pulled the dress shirt off over his head and pulled on the velour one. “What?” He asked, noticing Garak’s pained expression.

“Never mind 1960s Earth, _you_, my dear, have a distinct lack of taste.“ Garak grumbled, fishing a crumpled grey uniform undershirt out from the pile.

“This is one of my favourites.” Bashir flashed him a smile.

“It’s hideous.”

“It’s comfy.”

“That shade of green makes you look ill.”

“But it’s so soft.” Bashir pulled the cuff over his hand and held it out. “Feel.”

Garak ran his fingers along the fabric. It _was_ soft, but the bright colour and geometric print were playing havoc with his tired eyes. He huffed in irritation and turned away. The two men finished changing their clothes in silence.

Sitting on the couch, Garak pulled self-consciously at the hem of his borrowed undershirt, trying in vain to get it to cover his paunch while he flipped through a list of _Rakantha Street_ episodes on the viewer. 

“Ratamba stew ok?” Bashir asked from the corner of the room, where he was prodding at the replicator.

“Mm-hm,” Garak hummed his assent.

“And tea?”

“Red leaf, please.” Garak selected an episode—an old favourite they had watched together many times before—and smiled to himself as the familiar opening title sequence played on the screen. “_Un_sweetened,” He added. 

“Right,” Bashir replied, “Coming up.” He typed in a code and the machine whirred.

Several episodes of the sitcom later, the empty plates from their meal piled on the coffee table, Garak sighed contentedly, watching the show’s farcical plot unfold through half-closed eyes. His companion—now sprawled across the sofa with his head in Garak’s lap—grinned up at him, pressing a hand to the strip of bare flesh where the Cardassian’s too-small shirt had ridden up. Grumbling in protest at the attention to an area he’d rather was ignored, but enjoying the soft warmth of the Human’s touch despite his discomfort, Garak swatted Bashir’s hand away.

“Mm, but you’re soft there,” Bashir protested.

“Yes,” Garak winced, tugging again at the bottom of the shirt, “But please don’t.”

“M’kay.” Bashir yawned, stretched and sat up. “I should put the clothes in the re-processor,” He said, eyes moving between his own discarded formalwear heaped on the floor and Garak’s, neatly-folded on a nearby chair. 

“Later?” Garak asked hopefully, circling an arm round the doctor, pulling him back down into his lap. “Can we have more of this first?”

Bashir settled back across the tailor’s thighs, propping his feet up on the arm of the couch. “More cuddling? Yes, we can, but—“ He broke off to seize the opportunity to press a quick kiss to Garak’s exposed midriff. 

“_Don’t_.” Garak warned, pushing his head gently away.

Bashir smirked up at his companion, but relented. “—But if we do the clothes now they’ll be ready by the morning and you won’t have to do the walk of shame in my uniform.” He pinched the grey fabric between his forefinger and thumb and pulled, stretching it out before releasing it to ping back onto the Cardassian’s belly.

“The whole Station will be talking about us anyway after what happened today,” Garak shrugged, “And who says I’m staying tonight?” He asked, smoothing a hand through the Human’s hair.

“You’re staying tonight.”

“You seem very sure of that.” 

“I am.” Bashir smirked again and rolled onto his side, turning his attention to the viewer.

“Well then, if I don’t have any choice in the matter...” Garak teased, slipping an arm round Bashir’s chest and manoeuvring the Human so that his shoulder was no-longer digging into Garak’s thigh.

“You don’t,” Bashir replied.

Garak sighed contentedly and closed his eyes, one arm around his dear doctor, holding him close, his other hand carding through the Human’s unruly hair. “That shirt...” He murmured.

“Hmm?”

“I maintain it’s still a crime against fashion, but I do agree with you—it is very soft.”

“Yeah,” Bashir agreed, eyes half-closing.

“It feels nice on my scales.” Garak slipped a hand between the Human’s back and his own belly to indicated where the uniform undershirt had ridden halfway up his stomach. “Here.”

“Told you,” Bashir mumbled sleepily.

“Mmm, you did.” Garak sighed again.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: “Take off your shirt” from prompt-bank.tumblr.com
> 
> Comments and kudos are love, folks <3


End file.
